


Silk Scandals

by PreludetoElysia



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Choking, Dom/sub, F/F, Face Slapping, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Smut, leg/thigh riding, miss/mistress kink, uwu, venable daddy, x Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23204170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludetoElysia/pseuds/PreludetoElysia
Summary: You were all going to die, anyways.
Relationships: Wilhemina Venable/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 91





	Silk Scandals

She had long stopped summoning you by voice to her quarters. Your meetings have become routine over the weeks: Every night you would go to her; a moth to flames, ants to sugar. This night is going to be no different, considering the day had been as tense as the last. Dinner passed as usual, and everyone retreated to their quarters for another night of dreamless sleep. Everyone except for you, as you now lay on your sheets staring at the ceiling of your dark room.

Waiting.

Until that _throb_ pushes you to your feet and across the room. _You need her._

You turn the cold metal knob of your door slowly until it lets loose and the solid, wooden slab pulls inward. The hall, visible albeit dim, is quiet enough that you can hear the low roar of your mind.

Nobody. _Good_.

You step out slowly, curling your fingers between the folds of purple cloth at your thighs. Your eyes dart in each direction.

Still, nobody.

You move about instinctively; the path is familiar. Yet, through it all, your heart still thrums deeply like the strings of an upright bass. Just the thought of her eyes and her hair and her words and her _hands_ have waves of lustful impatience washing over you.

The next hallway that you turn onto is _different,_ in light and atmosphere, than the others. And when you reach it, her door stares right back at you. This door challenges every part of you—this door makes your blood thicken, makes your heart trip over itself. This door makes you contemplate risk and life and death all in its broad rings of walnut and shining brass.

For a moment, you cannot move.

_Well, you were all going to die anyways._

The glow of her fireplace paints streaks of amber along the creases of her purple attire. She appears as a fiendish goddess before you and the heat that spreads across every plane of your body is not solely caused by those crackling flames. Her posture is poised, regal as ever even with her scoliosis. Her gloved hands rest at either side of her _throne_.

You shuffle quietly into the room, closing the door behind you with a soft click. You don’t lock it, you don’t have to. No one else would dare to even _knock_ and wish for another breath.

You linger for a moment before removing your evening dress, pulling the fabric over your head. It drops to the floor in a heap, and you leave it.

The wooden floor seems to be even more frigid against the tender skin of your knees and palms, yet simultaneously you flush. Your underwear stretches across your hips as you crawl closer to where she waits, staring at your nearly naked form. Your eyes fall to the floor. You had learned, after the night that started it all, all of her rules.

You know her dark eyes are assessing you, contemplating all she could do to it, what you would _let her_ do to it.

Your knees pleasantly burn and ache from having repeated the action so many times before, but your favorite part is when you sit back on your haunches before her. When you settle down, your gaze trains on her.

_I can't believe she's real._

You do not get to savor this moment for long, as she extends one clothed hand, palm down, before your lips. Her voice is certain. “Take off my gloves."

Tonight’s gloves are different from the others you’ve seen on her—the ones that cut off before her second knuckles—but you aren't complaining. When did she get these, and where?

Brushing your thoughts away, you relax your jaw and pinch the very end of the silky cloth that is presented. She is glaring at you, and as much as you want to match her gaze, you have to focus on your task. After loosening each finger of the glove, you return to the middlemost one, intending on removing the whole article completely.

You miscalculate.

_If not by a mere centimeter._

Your cheek is already a splotchy pink by the time her hand could even complete its movement, and you realize that you had pinched her. She removes that damned glove the rest of the way off in your fluster, but its partner remains, because now she doesn’t care, and she’s slapped you again.

But then she’s soft and velvety, swiping her clothed thumb across your pouted lip, slowly dragging the delicate skin with it.

You’re stunned at the least. This wasn't the first time something of this nature had happened, but it _had_ happened so quickly that she has left you to gawk at the decorative buttons of her dress.

Wilhemina caresses your abused flesh sweetly with cold fingers, but it leaves soon thereafter to rip the remaining glove off. The veins that run up her carpals resemble streaks of violent lightning bolts, and you want to run your tongue along them. Make amends.

But, like lightning to your thunder, she is always one step ahead, or two. Her knee is pressing harshly against the inside of your knee, commanding you to spread both. She situates you exactly how she wants you: _straddling her leg like a bitch in heat._

Your eyelids clench in time with your core. You’re too surprised and aroused at the sensation to make any noise.

She presses herself up against your clothed clit, shooting sparks up your spine. Your vulva is soon sore from her rough contact, but the sting only heightens your pleasure. She is digging hard directly against your clit, whether she knows it or not.

“Tell me how it feels. Does it hurt? Am I hurting your pretty pussy?”

Finally, you whimper, and a part of you wants to say yes, _it aches so much_. You want to play with her, beg for her pity, weaken her a bit to you. And have her coddle you. But she wouldn't excuse you from the pain she is initiating upon you, not tonight at least. She wasn't in the mood to play savior.

“No?” She prompts, whispering into your ear.

She is beyond satisfied when you take it upon yourself to do the work, and when you press yourself harder against her skin, you both groan.

“Mina…”

She strikes you once more, harder than before, and you moan loudly into the quietness of her room. Wilhemina clasps a hand around your bare throat, her other slithering up and down the length of your navel like a purple serpent.

"Try again," she nearly hisses. Your panties are practically soaking her, fueling her ego.

"Mistress—"

"Hmm, what is it, dear?" She interrupts playfully, “What do you want?”

“Please,” you look at her, _really_ look at her, innocently, not letting on too much, and if you had the nerve under her strict palm, you would grin at her.

A smile stretches across her dark lips, she already knows. “You're so pretty, look at you.”

Her fingers wrap even tighter around you, and in turn yours grasp onto her forearms. You can feel the tension in her muscles. As if you could be any more turned on from rocking yourself to orgasm on her leg, she leans into your hair, nudging it away from your ear with her nose. “Come on. Give it to me.”

You grind even harder, your underwear wet and twisted obscenely, “Ahh, fuck… M—”

Her thumb inhibits any further noise as she thrusts it between your lips and you suck and moan as you ride both her and your high. She smirks at the sound of your extensive mewling. Eventually you come back down from bliss, and she pulls away. You fall back onto your hands, thighs twitching and spread for her.

"Show me," she says, when you were just thinking of retrieving your clothes and departing. She has never done this before, requested any more from you than an orgasm, or two, or three.

You feel dizzy in the best way. And you are wet beyond belief.

You let her stare down at you—your flushed, sticky body. You can’t read her, past her dark eyes.

“Touch yourself,” Wilhemina decides after a moment.

Immediately, your hand lowers to your panties, before slipping under. You moan faintly, the tingles still reside after your first orgasm. For her sake, and with a nod of approval, you guide the useless garment down your thighs and onto the floor.

Wilhemina’s enjoying the show—you can tell from her shining, hooded eyes and freshly-licked lips—so you whimper loudly for her and rub yourself harder, faster. The only thing louder than your voice is your arousal, the lewd, wet noises reverberating off the walls. Just as your thighs begin to hitch up, a clear symptom of an upcoming orgasm, she speaks up.

“Stop.”

You begrudgingly force your hand away from your center, but tease her by licking your fingers.

"Have a good night, sweetheart,” she smiles, reaching down and over to grab your panties, as you gather up the pile of purple sitting at the doorway. “But, aren’t you forgetting something?”

Not one to disappoint, you bound over to her and press your lips against the soft skin of her cheek.

The last image you see before you fall asleep that night is of Wilhemina Venable folding up your panties and pushing them into her dress pocket.

**Author's Note:**

> say hi on tumblr! @preludetoelysia


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